The Accidental Tourist

And she talked so much — almost ceaselessly; while Macon was the kind of man to whom silence was better than music. (“Listen! They’re playing my song,” he used to say when Sarah switched the radio off.) She talked about blushers, straighteners, cellulite, hemlines, winter skin. She was interested in the appearance of things, only the appearance: in lipstick shades and nail wrapping and facial masques and split ends. Once, on one of her more attractive days, he told her she was looking very nice, and she grew so flustered that she stumbled over a curb. She asked if that was because she had tied her hair back; and was it the hair itself or the ribbon; or rather the color of the ribbon, which she’d feared might be just a little too bright and set off the tone of her complexion wrong. And didn’t he think her hair was hopeless, kerblamming out the way it did in the slightest bit of humidity? Till he was sorry he had ever brought it up. Well, not sorry, exactly, but tired. Exhausted.

Yet she could raise her chin sometimes and pierce his mind like a blade. Certain images of her at certain random, insignificant moments would flash before him: Muriel at her kitchen table, ankles twined around her chair rungs, filling out a contest form for an all-expense-paid tour of Hollywood. Muriel telling her mirror, “I look like the wrath of God”—a kind of ritual of leavetaking. Muriel doing the dishes in her big pink rubber gloves with the crimson fingernails, raising a soapy plate and trailing it airily over to the rinse water and belting out one of her favorite songs—“War is Hell on the Home Front Too” or “I Wonder if God Likes Country Music.” (Certainly she liked country music — long, complaining ballads about the rocky road of life, the cold gray walls of prison, the sleazy, greasy heart of a two-faced man.) And Muriel at the hospital window, as he’d never actually seen her, holding a mop and gazing down at the injured coming in.

Then he knew that what mattered was the pattern of her life; that although he did not love her he loved the surprise of her, and also the surprise of himself when he was with her. In the foreign country that was Singleton Street he was an entirely different person. This person had never been suspected of narrowness, never been accused of chilliness; in fact, was mocked for his soft heart. And was anything but orderly.

“Why don’t you come to my folks’ house for Christmas dinner?” she asked him.

Macon was in her kitchen at the time. He was crouched beneath the sink, turning off a valve. For a moment he didn’t answer; then he emerged and said, “Your folks?”

“For Christmas dinner.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know,” he said.

“Come on, Macon, please say yes! I want you to meet them. Ma thinks I’m making you up. ‘You made him up,’ she says. You know how she is.”

Yes, Macon did know, at least from second hand, and he could just imagine what that dinner would be like. Booby-trapped. Full of hidden digs and hurt feelings. The fact was, he just didn’t want to get involved.

So instead of answering, he turned his attention to Alexander. He was trying to teach Alexander how to fix a faucet. “Now,” he said, “you see I shut the valve off. What did I do that for?”

All he got was a glassy pale stare. This was Macon’s idea, not Alexander’s. Alexander had been hauled away from the TV like a sack of stones, plunked on a kitchen chair, and instructed to watch closely. “Oh,” Muriel said, “I’m not sure about this. He’s not so very strong.”

“You don’t have to be Tarzan to fix a kitchen faucet, Muriel.”

“Well, no, but I don’t know. ”

Sometimes Macon wondered if Alexander’s ailments were all in Muriel’s head.

“Why did I shut off the valve, Alexander?” he asked.

Alexander said, “Why.”

“You tell me.”

“You tell me.”

“No, you,” Macon said firmly.

There was a bad moment or two in which it seemed that Alexander might keep up that stare of his forever. He sat C-shaped in his chair, chin on one hand, eyes expressionless. The shins emerging from his trousers were thin as Tinkertoys, and his brown school shoes seemed very large and heavy. Finally he said, “So the water won’t whoosh all over.”

“Right.”

Macon was careful not to make too much of his victory.

“Now, this leak is not from the spout, but from the handle,” he said. “So you want to take the handle apart and replace the packing. First you unscrew the top screw. Let’s see you do it.”

“Me?”

Macon nodded and offered him the screwdriver.

“I don’t want to,” Alexander said.

“Let him just watch,” Muriel suggested.

“If he just watched he won’t know how to fix the one in the bathtub, and I’m going to ask him to manage that without me.”